The sick room bunkroom in the eastern wing of the high station was a quiet, whitewashed chamber lit up by a broad southern casement that looked out over the subalpine crags. The room smelled cleanly of dried lavender, bitter pine-resin oil, and wood smoke. A steady draught from the upper pass kept the air fresh. Meanwhile, a cast-iron stove in the corner threw a gentle, even heat that drove the mountain chill from the stone floor.
Paxa Sel stood beside the washstand, rolling up the sleeves of her wool tunic. She had laid out a clean linen cloth across a low oak table, upon which sat her razor-sharp instruments, a basin of steaming water infused with dried comfrey root, and a fresh jar of pine-wax salve.
“Sit on the stool, Fellis,” Paxa instructed, nodding toward the chair beside the window. “Rest your elbow on the linen. Kezra, bring the shears and the warm water.”
Fellis Dain walked to the chair with a slow, cautious step. His face was less gray than it had been on the mountain bench, helped by ten hours of uninterrupted sleep in a dry bed and two bowls of hot oat porridge. But his jaw was tight with worry. He rested his left forearm on the table. He looked down at the heavy willow-and-leather splint that wrapped his arm from mid-forearm to the tips of his fingers.
